


the currency of living

by twigcollins



Series: moments in another time [17]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:22:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7035670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigcollins/pseuds/twigcollins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raithwall's Tomb, before and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Everything has to be taken on trust; truth is only that which is taken to be true. It’s the currency of living."

Penelo wakes before the sun, to a low hum in the air and her bed gently swaying, and even before she’s opened her eyes the jolt of excitement runs through her, on her feet before she’s truly awake. It’s not a bed at all, but a hammock strung up between two supporting struts, in a storage space that’s been hastily converted into a bedroom for her and Vaan on the Strahl.

The Strahl. An airship. An _adventure_. 

She’s been an early riser all her life, waking to see her father off or even join him on early morning deliveries. Since the annexation, Penelo’s needed the quiet of that first early hour, a few moments to herself, to put her thoughts in order and prepare for whatever the day might bring. With all that’s happened now, this time alone seems more valuable than ever.

Vaan is burrowed beneath the covers on the other side of the narrow room, and he doesn’t stir as she silently gets to her feet. It seemed prudent to sleep in her clothes - they’re still cleaner than they’ve been in months, and thinking of that, rubbing her fingers over a mended hem makes her remember the Lord Consul and Bhujerba, Rhiale and her sister - and Larsa.

A whole life’s worth of living packed into a few hours. 

_The Lord Consul killed Reks. Had him killed. By the same man who helped him murder the king - Judge Magister Gabranth._

The thought makes her shiver, as if there was any space left in her to be more afraid of him. Vaan didn’t seem to understand her hesitance, her lack of any newly kindled hatred for the Lord Consul or Archades.

_The Judge Magister didn’t even kill Reks, not really. He killed a soldier whose name he didn’t know, because he happened to be there at the time. It could have been anyone._

Reks had died for reasons that nothing to do with him, the same way that her parents had died, in a war that had never really been a war, and yet still managed to take away everything she loved. 

Penelo tries to feel anger, or hate - she tries, she really does, but all she ends up with is dread. It’s too vast to try and pick it apart, the machinations of empires and the men who live in them and Penelo feels very small and very fortunate that’s she’s still alive.

_A little more than alive, if you’re being honest._

The other letter the Lord Consul had given her is still safe in her possession, carefully hidden away. Penelo’s thought to destroy it a half-dozen times now, cursing her cowardice, her indecision - how dare she even think she could negotiate with a kingslayer? How dare her loyalty to her home, her family be anything but absolute? Could she really look Reks in the eye and explain such hesitation?

_Vayne Soldior murdered King Raminas, and all but buried Lord Basch alive, branded him traitor for a crime that wasn’t his. He’s everything you’ve heard he was. A monster._

He is, isn’t he? Balthier certainly thinks so, and no doubt has even more evidence than he’s had time to share. 

Except Penelo had dined at Vayne’s table. She’d seen him smile, and laugh at the Doctor like any man might tease a friend - and he’d asked about her family. He’d wanted to know how much pain he’d caused her, and his response had been neither cruel or indifferent.

The Lord Consul could have threatened her, or worse, as easily as breathing. He didn’t need to fake his concern - what was she to him? - but if it had been real…? How could any of that have been real?

_Larsa believes his brother to be the best of men._

Oh, it will hurt him to learn of this, and some foolish part of her hopes he never does.

Not that it’s any of her concern. None of it should matter, when Reks is still dead and the king is still dead and now Princess Ashelia is alive to avenge all those wrongs, to make things as they should be. Why can’t Penelo just be angry, the way Vaan wants her to be? The way her Highness is, Ashelia’s own determination fierce and unwavering toward their foes.

Penelo’s hand slips down to where the Nethicite rests in a hidden, inner pocket. She had known it was rare and valuable, but it was only in listening to the Marquise talk, with Vaan telling her about their time in the mines that Penelo understands the gravity of what Larsa has entrusted her with. Such a secret for a girl he barely knows. It seems such a reckless gesture that a part of Penelo thinks it must be a fake, or that she’s being deceived, a tiny piece of some vast, new intrigue but for all it seems the most likely possibility, Penelo can’t really believe it.

Larsa Solidor would not lie to her, if she knows nothing else she knows that, and Penelo will keep this secret safe for him, forever if need be. Whatever the future brings, even if they never meet again, that day in Bhujerba will be the best day of her life for the rest of her life.

————————————————

Balthier has parked the ship a day or so from their destination, though this is as far as they dare push into an area patchworked with Jagd deadlands. He did not seem particularly pleased at the situation, and even less so with his stowaways. Penelo doesn’t think he’d kick them out without warning, but she’s not entirely sure why she and Vaan had been allowed to leave Bhujerba in the first place. A gesture of gratitude would not be out of place.

So Penelo makes pancakes.

Well, no. First, she steps carefully down the main hall, past a long row of closed doors. It seems she really is the first one ready to face the new day.

Penelo had left the cockpit the night before with Balthier and Her Highness still trading annoyed barbs at the unfortunate need for their temporary alliance. Balthier kept a firm weight on the word - ‘temporary’ - like a tool for hammering down any future debates. The princess glared back, ill at ease and refusing to imply even the slightest bit of indebtedness to the sky pirate. Penelo very much hoped no one would expect her or Vaan to pick a side.

Except Vaan’s already made his choice, hasn’t he? Maybe even before he’d spent all those hours at the side of Dalmasca’s heir to the throne. Penelo had tried to get him to talk to her about what he’d done at the palace, how dangerous it had been, but he’d shrugged her off as he always did. Uninterested in the past, when the future now shone so bright.

_Isn’t it good, if things go back to the way they were? The princess takes the Shard, and regains her throne, and the Archadians… leave?_

As if it could ever be that simple, or that bloodless, and Penelo wraps her fingers around her arms and forces herself to breathe, to just be still. Whatever the future may hold, there is nothing to do at the moment but those small things she can.

The Strahl’s mess is… exactly that. One long, metal table stands relatively clear, and the kitchen itself is the most modern that Penelo has ever seen, stove and sink and icebox all crystal-powered. Very impressive, or it would be if more than an inch of it were visible under the careful architecture of dirty pots and filthy pans, with an arsenal of silverware jutting here and there to deter any direct assault.

Penelo’s seen worse. Penelo had brothers.

She peeks gingerly into the icebox, not so surprised to find an army of ales standing careful guard over some sad, mummified vegetables, and what she hopes is a fresh container of eggs stacked on top of what appears to be an engine block, wedged in among a collection of half-burned candles, two wheels of expensive aged cheese, a pair of screwdrivers and a scattering of silver coins that drop out of the bag one by one, though Penelo moves fast enough to catch them before most can hit the ground.

A mixture of the inedible and the mundane, studded here and there with delicacy and ridiculous extravagance. For every apple or pear there is a tin of goose livers with cherry or a jar of caviar, all spilling from a box marked with Archadian seals - pilfered rations intended for officers, perhaps. The whole teetering wall of it mortared with enough airship parts, pieces and tools that Penelo could probably build herself another ship given enough time.

What she first mistakes for a stone inexplicably wrapped in paper proves itself to be a block of chocolate half the size of her head. Penelo will blame any nibbled corners on sky mice.

She’s always enjoyed putting a room back as it ought to be, even if that proves her a absolute bore - she’d happily helped her father and Migelo tidy storerooms all day, finding space for huge orders coming in on top of orders yet to leave. 

A careful inventory of the cabinets reveals flour, salt and sugar - all in unmarked containers, of course - along with sacks of spices in luxurious amounts, nearly a dozen volumes of books on history, magicks and engineering - no two of them from the same series - and a wealthy merchant’s trove of perfumes, wine and brandies from all corners of Ivalice, wrapped up in a bolt of rich, sapphire velvet.

The cleaning takes a while, carefully shifting piles on top of piles in the small space, but finally Penelo’s managed to unearth enough plates and silverware for the table. All of it mismatched, but every fork and knife pure silver, down to the three - no, four salt cellars she finds in the pantry, each stacked inside each other and topped by a truly wretched-looking drinking mug. 

Penelo works quietly but industriously, greatly aided by a door set in the opposite side of the hull. It is an odd feeling to open it to the empty sky, sweeping out the dust and dirt into the faint glow of dawn, the familiar desert chill making her shiver and Penelo wants to laugh, thinks for a moment she might cry - a morning like any other, but here she is, hovering effortlessly among the clouds, the desert spreading out to a far horizon lined with low, unfamiliar hills. 

_This is living. This is what it feels like, when you’re really alive._

————————————————————

The moogles arrive just as Penelo is flipping over her test pancake, which looks hearteningly edible for being her first on an unfamiliar pan with an unfamiliar stove. The air is peppered with cheery greetings and surprised, even more cheery ’kupos’ as the smell of breakfast fills the air. Pancakes seemed the easiest, most sensible option - Penelo’s made them more times than she can count for their small group, and whoever else Vaan or the others might bring with them for a meal.

Cheap, filling and flexible, although as Penelo pours smaller portions out for moogle-sized cakes, one of the mechanics disappears into the icebox to return with half of a rasher of bacon, a basket of berries, a small jar of fresh butter and several other delicacies Penelo hadn’t quite been brave enough to pilfer without permission.

She mistakes the tiny chirp for a squeaking hinge at first, but it is a tiny, furry baby moogle clambering over a precarious stack of boxes, ambitious flaps of its miniature wings only seeming to send it further off balance. Penelo leans down quickly to scoop it up, a startled ‘kupo’ for her efforts but the tiny creature does not seem upset by the change in scenery, happy to settle on her shoulder and watch her work, with the occasional pinprick tug of claws in her hair. 

The snap-hiss of static is familiar, a moogle fiddling with a knob in the wall, though Penelo hasn’t heard it in years. Nothing close to the coin it would take to secure a radio and nothing much in Rabanastre to broadcast these days, though even listening to the chatter of the airships had been a delight in her younger years. Now, though, she’s on a proper ship and it’s no real surprise a sky pirate’s radio is top of the line, the signal boosted enough to catch the entertainments the commercial ships bounce between themselves, fit to entertain the passengers and keep the crew from running mad on the long, dull runs.

It’s been a long time since she’s heard any music from outside Dalmasca’s borders - this a song from Rozarria, with a slow and easy beat beneath the nimble counterpoint of the strings. Making pancakes is a mindless enough task, and so Penelo can just enjoy the moment, the moogles chattering at the table, cheering when she appears with second helpings. The baby at her shoulder is enraptured as she drops a few fresh berries into the next batch, squeaking in delight when she offers it a taste. 

Everything she could ask for in a day, with the sun now fully over the horizon, warming all it touches through the still-open door and so Penelo is certainly dancing and perhaps even humming a bit when she turns to find Basch and Balthier watching her from the doorway. 

She doesn’t drop the pan, but it’s a near thing. Basch reminds her of nothing so much as a wild animal, strong but wary, and unsure. Testing each step in a world that had once been familiar - but when she smiles, he smiles back.

Balthier looks from her, to his now tidy if not quite gleaming mess, to the moogles still lingering over the remains of their breakfast.

“A lesser man might consider this mutiny. Is there coffee?”

“All right, food!” Vaan appears, lunging past them with a hand already outstretched toward the nearest plate and Penelo’s whacked his knuckles with the spatula before she even thinks to do it. A habit born of too many times watching him kill rats with one hand while finishing his lunch with the other. More than that, there’s royalty on this ship - a ship that isn’t theirs - and at least one of them ought to observe some rule of precedence. Between the meeting at Bhujerba and the subsequent ‘kidnapping,’ there hasn’t been much time to agree on titles, and Penelo errs on the side of manners.

“Good morning, captain. Morning, milord.” Penelo dips a curtsy as far as she dares with the moogle still on her shoulder, the baby staring curiously at Basch’s long hair, little claws flexing eagerly. 

“I am no one’s lord,” Basch says. The words still creak out of him slightly, unused to the practice. “and ‘ere I were, we are now comrades in arms. Call me Basch, if you will, as my friends do.” 

“Do feel free to keep calling me captain.” Balthier says blithely. “Milord would also suffice. ‘Master of the air and king of the skies,’ perhaps? I do like the way it trips across the tongue.” 

“You may call him Balthier, if you are feeling generous.” Fran enters the room as gracefully as she does everything Penelo has ever seen her do. It’s more than a little intimidating just being around her, even if the viera is never less than courteous. “If you wish, there are other names-“

“Ah, Fran.” Balthier moves toward the table, and more importantly the steaming pot of coffee a moogle pushes his way. “How would I ever survive without you to defend my honor?”

The princess arrives last, while Penelo is serving Basch, and he hands off his plate to Ashelia as if he’d planned it that way. It’s just like a story, his unswerving fealty, although her Highness doesn’t seem pleased by it, taking the plate with a small frown. Vaan said she’d spent the last two years with the resistance, so it can’t be that the food is too lowborn, can it?

“If this doesn’t please you, I could make something else, your majesty?” Penelo says with another small curtsy, because whatever Balthier’s allegiances, Ashelia is still the rightful ruler of Dalmasca, and fealty is Penelo’s obligation. The princess blinks at her, still with that slight scowl. Nothing welcoming, certainly nothing like Vayne Solidor’s quiet amusement - but then, Ashelia is honest. That ought to be better than any false kindness.

“It’s fine, thank you.” A pause. “It would be better if you called me Ashe, and treated me as any other. It will raise fewer questions, and we are… allies now.” This last part spoken with a slight scowl in Balthier’s direction, though he doesn’t see, too busy looking over the blueprints the moogles have brought along.

“About that,” the sky pirate says, “I do wonder how we ought sneak past the Archadians with all that treasure on our return trip - let alone the Shard?”

“The Empire is there?” Ashe says.

“If they aren’t now, they will be soon.” Balthier says. “Unfortunately, the Strahl is of little use over Jagd sands - unlike most of the Archadian fleet. They have found their way to two shards already. It would prove quite valuable for them to keep an eye out for, say, a stray princess attempting to unearth the third.”

“But if the door’s still shut, why don’t we just leave it in there?” Vaan says. Ashe frowns, but Balthier speaks first.

“Unfortunately, Draklor’s just finished their final conversions on the _Alexander_. With the power in that ship, it would be no great effort for them to just smash the whole place to rubble, magicks and all, and pick through the wreckage for their prize.”

“You seem quite knowledgable of all this.” Ashe says coolly.

“If it happens in the skies, it is my business.” Balthier agrees. “And Raithwall’s tomb is legendary for a reason. Enough within those doors for even the most profligate knave to retire on tenfold. With the Shard in your possession, I believe Rozarria would be pleased to offer their aid without any holy writ _or_ Bhujerba’s glowing praise. Which is why great Archades will no doubt do anything they can to keep it from you. All of which will surely impede Fran and I from walking away with the rest of the spoils. So I ask you again - what exactly is our exit strategy?”

Ashe tenses, her gaze skittering away. “I… I’m not certain.”

Penelo finishes with the pan, making a plate of her own, leaning back against the counter. The tiny moogle reaches out for her first forkful, and Penelo tears off a piece for it, rewarded with a happy chirp.

At the table, Basch is eating very slowly, savoring each bite. The way of a man who’d been denied any simple pleasures for a long time. He notices her attention, and smiles again. It is a gentle thing.

“The food is very good. Thank you.”

“Yeah, Penelo’s always cooking for us.” Vaan says, loading two more cakes onto his plate. “Back home, half the kids just call her mom.”

Thank you, Vaan - that’s exactly how she wants these nobles and sky pirates to think of her. Dull, dependable Penelo. She tries not to scowl, spearing at her own pancake with a bit more force than is necessary.

“I do believe there’s room at the table, if you’d care to join us.” Balthier offers, and it’s only then that Penelo realizes she’s been eating standing up, because it’s always the way of things back home. There’s usually more people than seats, and she’ll be busy cleaning, or running after the next errand that needs her attention before she’s even done chewing.

It means more than it should, the small gesture of consideration, and as Penelo sits down the moogles clear their plates and begin cleaning up their share.

“Is that a dish rack? In what world do we have a _dish rack_?” Balthier asks no one in particular.

“We cannot move forward without the Shard.” Ashe says, “and I will not be indebted to anyone to gain what is rightly mine.”

“Noble words, highness.” Balthier says. “Though I fail to see much profit in them. ’Tis no concern of mine either way, though I’m sure the Marquis would gladly open his doors, should you once more require refuge - especially with the Dawn Shard fresh at hand.”

“You doubt his intentions, when he did not even wish for me to leave.” Ashe protests. “As he said, it is my birthright - Bhujerba could not wield its power, and even if they could, to what purpose?”

“Possession is nine-tenths, no doubt.” Balthier says. “A relic that valuable is useful as the means, with or without a particular end. I imagine Ondore thinks much the same.”

The princess frowns. “You will not speak so of my uncle, thief.”

Balthier grins. “Says the woman so hasty to wander off with my ship.”

Penelo sees one of Fran’s ears give the briefest twitch - amusement, perhaps? 

“There… may be another way out, once we find our way to the central chamber.” Basch breaks the tension, though he seems uneasy about it. “Highness, I believe your father has been inside Raithwall’s tomb.”

“What?” Ashe frowns. “That isn’t possible.”

Basch nods, his eyes low and deferential. “I remember… there were letters, from before the war. Conversations between your father and the former King of Nabradia, along with the Marquis and even ambassadors from the Rozarrian court. Your uncle seemed certain that your father had visited Raithwall’s tomb, that he had even seen the Dawn Shard and-“

“Impossible.” Ashe says again. “If my father knew of it, he would have brought the Shard to Rabanastre. He would have used it against the Empire.”

Basch hesitates, reluctant to agree. Penelo can see it from set of his shoulders even if he does not lift his head - and Ashe can see it too, her countenance increasingly cold and stormy.

“The Dusk Shard was in the palace vaults. Hidden in plain sight.” Balthier says. “It seems unlikely it found its own way there.”

“My father was no coward!” Ashe snaps.

“No, highness.” Basch says carefully. “King Raminas was truly the wisest and best of men. Yet… perhaps he knew that there are choices in this world that should never be made.”

“If we do not fight, we will be less than servants in our own kingdom. Mere vassals to the Empire.” Ashe says, incredulous. “What worse fate would you spare me?”

“Obviously the one your father wished to keep from you.” Balthier murmurs.

“I will not speak of this further.” Ashe says, rising from the table, working to keep her voice calm. “I will be in my quarters until we are ready to depart for the tomb. If I am to prove myself, we must obtain the Shard, and if the Archadians are so eager, we must not hesitate. All else is of little consequence.”

In the wake of her departure, Balthier reaches out and slides her nearly untouched breakfast onto his own plate.

“Well, I for one feel quite assured of our victory. Plans do just get in the way, as often as not.”

“I apologize.” Basch says. “There have always been more questions than I have had answers to, for a very long time now. Mysteries I have turned over and over in the dark, and still they keep their secrets.”

Balthier nods. “You truly believe King Raminas had been in Raithwall’s Tomb? Alone?”

Basch frowns, but nods. “I cannot explain it myself, and he did not confide the whole of it in me, or anyone. But for whatever reason, I do not think it was his wish that we should take the Shard. I believe he wished to keep it from the princess, most of all.”

“Well, it seems that particular choice is out of your hands.” Balthier says. “And I can only hope that Raithwall’s lesser treasures lack any similar moral dilemmas. Which brings us to the purely practical questions of how we proceed.” He looks to Penelo. “Do you know how to use a blade?”

Penelo shakes her head. Only a hunting knife, and rarely that against anything still alive. It shouldn’t be a relief, to think that whatever dark horrors may be waiting in the tomb, at least she won’t have to fight other people.

“Are you trained in any weapons?”

“The quarterstaff?” Penelo says, although she didn’t have the time or the wherewithal to actually bring -

“I have something that will suit her.” Fran says, giving her an appraising look that Penelo tries not to shy away from. 

“It was my honor to fight at your brother’s side, if only for a short time.” Basch says, looking to Vaan. “I owe you a debt, and if you would wish, I might repay some small portion of it by training you in the sword. You have already proven yourself to have courage and skill in defense of your homeland. I would be glad to teach you what I know, the path to becoming a true knight of Dalmasca.”

It hasn’t escaped her notice that Vaan has been carrying a blade far sharper than anything he used in Rabanastre - a real weapon of war. The thought comes uneasily, though Penelo could never have dissuaded him, sword or no sword.

“Yeah! I mean yes. Yes, sir.” Vaan’s eyes are wide, aware of the full scope of the offer - training under the former captain of the guard himself. “Does this mean you’ll teach me how to use magicks?”

“Of course.” Basch says.

“No.” Balthier says at the same time, glaring at Vaan. “No practicing of magicks aboard my ship. No magicks _within sight_ of my ship.”

“If Basch teaches me to be a knight, will you teach me how to fly?

Balthier sighs. “Ask me again, once we’ve survived this tomb and I’m richer than a dozen kings, and I’ll be quite happy to tell you no.”

Vaan groans. Basch smiles. The baby moogle chirps, and attempts to stuff half a pancake in its mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Balthier kind of let the kitchen go for a couple of weeks... months there. He probably planned on sending in a proper expedition after it ate a moogle or two.


	2. Chapter 2

“Do not touch anything.” Balthier warns. “Do not wander, keep close to your princess, do not touch anything and above all else - Do Not. Touch. Anything.”

“Why do you keep looking at me?” Vaan protests.

“I am _only_ looking at you.” Balthier says.

By midday in the Nam-Yensa, the sun presses down on them like a bar of white-hot iron and they are left to seek shelter in what shadows can be found among the rusting remains of old Rozarrian industry. Balthier is in the middle of an impromptu speech on the basics of raiding tombs that - gods willing - he will only have to give two or three more times before any of it begins to sink in. Vaan is bold and quick - and careless in that way of boys who are sure of their immortality, paying far less attention to Balthier than he does to the ever-shifting sandsea. 

“You should have let them stay with your crew.” Ashe says, and he thinks she is concerned, worried for them but it comes out as sharp as everything she says, lesser emotions best kept hidden beneath her disdain. “It’s dangerous.”

“Leave him alone with the Strahl, you mean?” Balthier says, dryly. “Besides, the more hands present, the less treasure I have to come back for.” 

Vaan is also quite adept at being in places he ought not, and where he goes Penelo will follow and so it is simply safer to keep them in sight from the start. At least the girl takes some interest in his advice, or at least is polite enough to pretend.

“Once we are in that crypt, pay heed to Fran. Follow her orders above all others - even mine. A viera’s senses are keen enough to sense dangers we humes cannot. If she says left, we go left. If she says freeze, you freeze. If she says not to touch something…”

Vaan makes a face.

Balthier glances skyward, the sun a blazing diamond. “We’ll rest now, and continue on once the sun is past its peak.”

“I don’t need to rest.” Ashe says. It’s a lie, she’s as tired as they are, but as driven as she ever was in Rabanastre, a one-woman insurrection beneath Dalmasca’s streets. Balthier wonders whether it even matters or not if she survives, if her vengeful ghost won’t just rise up and strangle the entire Imperial Court regardless.

“Quite impressive, highness.” He replies. “I almost feel bad for disappointing you.” 

It is too easy to stay out of her good graces, as Ashe scowls at him and turns on her heel, moving to the farthest edge of the platform. Penelo and Vaan wander off to find their own patch of shade, even Vaan’s energy wilting slightly in the face of the steady, baking winds.

Balthier glances up to the sky out of habit, though of course there is nothing to see. If he were the Archadians, he would simply post a constant watch on the tomb from some well-hidden outpost, and wait to see it opened before calling in the reinforcements.

If he were the Rozarrians… well, they are quite close to the border now, aren’t they? Jagd or no, the Archadians can’t fly ships this close without being noticed. Of course, any confrontation might work to their advantage, if the two empires decide to turn on each other. If this hidden exit Basch speaks of is of is simply wishful thinking, and they must yet fight their way to freedom. The former captain does not strike Balthier as a man particularly prone to flights of fancy, and the Strahl has faced greater dangers with less certainty, but he is far from confident.

He indulges in playing the feckless gallant, but behind even the most excessive gambles there is usually some semblance of a plan. Of course, Balthier’s known all along that this particular roll of the dice would also mean going in blind. He has studied all he can, but no one has traveled beyond those doors, even the most learned studies mere speculation. If the tomb is truly impenetrable, at least they ought face nothing living within, only magickal wards and beasts. Presumably, with the last heir to Dalmasca’s throne in tow, they may even keep from tripping at least a few of those nastier traps.

He still stacks his defensive spells carefully in his mind, shuffling and reshuffling. Hoping he can rely a bit more on conventional weapons if he is called on to shield for any length of time. Fran has always handled her own magicks, and though the Akademy trained him to protect an entire platoon if need be, it’s been years since Balthier has cast those spells as second nature. He’s been spoiled, adventuring all this time by himself or with a partner who rarely needs him at all. 

“You fret.” Fran says, stepping up beside him. “It will give you wrinkles.”

“A few lines here and there might make me look distinguished.” Balthier muses. “Maybe then someone would actually take heed of me.”

“Do not worry. The boy proved himself well enough in Nalbina, and the girl is cautious, and knows how to fight. We will be mindful.”

Fran is not half so troubled by the new additions to their crew, to constant chatter in place of silence. The viera are a stoic, reticent people by nature - he doubts anyone else can tell how much it pleases her to answer Vaan and Penelo’s questions, to see their excitement at the journey. Fran does not tend to speak often of her sisters, but enough that Balthier thinks being an elder sibling was perhaps the hardest thing of all to leave behind. 

“Well,” Balthier says, looking to where the princess has retreated, with Basch but few steps away. “I suppose that’s half our problem solved, then.”

“She is afraid.” Fran says. Even now, Ashe stands with her back perfectly straight, as if she is rallying her troops instead of holding court over a vast, empty nothingness. “She wishes to do what is right, to protect her people, but lacks the power.”

“On such noble ambitions do worlds burn.” 

He’s being too harsh - what of this is her fault? The princess does only what she can, what he would likely do in her situation. Which does nothing to change the stakes, or the complications. The winds she stirs up in her wake threaten a storm Balthier is not sure he can navigate.

Will they quit this tomb successfully, only to learn that great Archades has used the Dusk Shard to blow a Nabudis-sized hole in the Rozarrian capital? All word from the border seems to suggest Rozarria is aware of the danger, westbound ships warning of more guards with shorter tempers and less inclination for letting anyone pass by. 

The alternative is of little comfort, if Archadia does not play their hand. If the good doctor is already so bored with reducing cities to poisoned cinders, and such base conquest no longer satisfies. What exactly was his business in Rabanastre? What of Vayne’s parting words? Why let Balthier go with barely a backward glance? Mockery, it can be little else. Daring him to make a challenge, already certain he will fail.

_Waiting for you to do the work for him, as you are using Her Highness._

It will all be a matter of who blinks first, who folds - if he and Fran take the Dawn Shard and run, if Vayne even intends to capture them here - or if they all sit back and watch, let the line play out, let the princess believe she is free to lead them directly to the Sun-Cryst. 

It’s difficult to find the angle, the play that does not court utter disaster.

As if aware of his thoughts, Balthier can hear some bit of the great iron hulk they stand upon slowly clanging against itself with the wind. A low funeral bell that rather oversells the bleakness of the scene. He turns, to see Vaan leaning precariously over the railing for no reason except to tease Penelo, who is trying to drag him back, protesting.

Balthier had expected to endure more than enjoy the additions to his crew - and that, at least, has gone according to plan.

“If you had told me that _this_ is how I would reach the tomb of King Raithwall…” He sighs. “Obviously, we should just gift the Cryst to the boy. He would use it as a paperweight, and we might all return to our business.

“He is young. More bold than wise.” Fran says. “I may have met such a hume before, once upon a time.”

“Take care, Fran. The heat, it does things to the mind.”

Balthier glances skyward again. He didn’t think it would irk him quite so much, putting this much distance between himself and the Strahl. No arguing that they’re being backed into a corner, or that there's any other choice.

“If nothing else, at least we might comfortably retire on what Penelo dug out of the pantries.” He says. “She found my missing boot, you know, and a few dozen tins of that herring you prefer.”

He does try to keep an eye to the bright side of things, and a hot breakfast is nothing to scowl about, whatever the circumstances. The fact that Penelo had managed to excavate any ingredients in the first place is enough to recommend her.

“She is not here to scrub the floors or mend your shirts.” Fran warns. Balthier has never been able to argue her out of the idea that anything could improve upon his character, especially manual labor.

“You did launder my clothes, that one time.”

“I kicked you in a lake.”

“Details.” Balthier says. “Now, shall we see how far fortune chooses to favor us?”

————————————————————————

It’s easier, the closer they get to their destination, as worry is replaced by the thrill of anticipation. Balthier would much rather be in the middle of a bad decision and fighting his way out than standing back to spectate, and who wouldn’t want to see inside the resting place of a man who once ruled all the known world?

“You believe this will be dangerous?” Basch says quietly, as they make their way down into the final valley, the entrance to the tomb. Balthier glances up again into the blank, blue skies for the Archadian ships that aren’t there. Yet.

“How many ancient tombs have you robbed recently, Captain?” Balthier shrugs. “It is no simple Bhujerban cave.”

“I have suggested Her Highness keep a defensive ward ready at all times, among other things.” He glances behind them, Vaan and Penelo looking up at the canyon walls beginning to tower above them, Vaan calling out to listen for the echo because what good did stealth ever do a sky pirate? “Do you wish for me to guard our young friends as well?”

“It seems more fair to divide the work.” Balthier says. “You keep an eye to your squire, Fran and I will watch over the girl.”

The sudden, echoing scream makes him tense, but it is not wholly unexpected. Balthier assumes that anything might happen now, watching the great bird wheel above them, its feathers glinting in a way that seems to burn. Green fire, nothing mortal, obviously the guardian of this sacred place. 

It’s a very good sign, when it descends without attacking, and though Basch murmurs a warning Ashe approaches it slowly, reaching out. The beast dips its head beneath her touch, as if receiving a blessing, before vanishing into a spray of green dust that settles into the sands, and the soft sound of stone on stone as the door opens. 

Basch hesitates for half a heartbeat, staring down into the crypt and likely seeing another, darker place altogether. 

“Will you manage, down there?” Balthier says, quietly, and Basch’s jaw tightens.

“I will endure.”

The princess has already descended, and the tomb responds to her presence - the walls lighting up beneath her touch, a delicate latticework of magicks that twine their way across the stones, braziers lighting one after the next with dancing blue-green flames.

Balthier hears Penelo gasp, and Vaan lets out a low whistle - nothing like seeing your first tomb, though as they descend his own attention is split between looking for anything that might try to kill them, and noticing how much treasure he’s _not_ seeing. The resting place of the greatest king of the age, one that presumably hasn’t been touched before now - it’s not that he expected the doorknobs to be made of gold but it wouldn’t have been entirely out of place.

“Do you hear that?” Ashe says, as they reach the floor of the first room. Staring out past the room, eyes narrowed in concentration. 

“Highness?” 

“No.” She frowns, after a moment. “No, it’s nothing.”

“In my experience, that’s rarely true.” Balthier murmurs, before his attention is caught by a glint on the far wall. “Ah, now what have we here?”

A mosaic of ruby, sapphire and topaz stretches along the wall, each gem as big as a chocobo’s eye. Fran is studying words carved into the wall - ancient Kildean, and her facility for languages is easily the match to his, so he focuses instead on jamming the tip of a blade against the nearest gem. Listening for the sound of any hidden mechanisms, for his ears to pop or the hair on the back of his neck to rise with a sudden surge of magicks. The princess lets out a noise of outrage at what she must believe is simply greed, but if the tomb is _that_ sensitive to outsiders, it’s best to know it now. 

Nothing happens, the gem falling gently into his hand. He studies it for a moment, holds it up against the light.

“Glass.”

‘The wealth of an emperor is revealed through the riches of his people. In this we honor him.’ Fran reads, tracing a claw over the ancient words. “A pauper king? He did not wish to be buried with anything that might better serve his subjects.”

“So, not good odds for those towering piles of gold, then.” Balthier says. “Perhaps we won’t be buying Balfonheim with the spoils of this journey after all.”

It matches what he knows of Raithwall, the oldest stories so fond that later accounts are all skeptical - no one could be so pure, so without pride or ambition. Yet there is no evidence to tarnish that image - the great ruler of a golden age. A philosopher-king whose reign was so moral and humane it ruined statecraft for everyone who came after, no real leader able to compare to such a paragon, or make his kingdom into a similar idyll.

The stairs lead down, and down. Ashe takes the lead, with Basch behind and Penelo and Vaan in the middle. Balthier and Fran keep up the rear, but if there are any dangers here it seems Ashe’s presence has negated them. The air is cool but not stale, swirling with Mist. The magicks in this place run deep, and were meant to last.

“Careful.” Basch says, when they step into a room and the floor ahead lights up with twisting, knotted patterns of light, a wide swath of blue tiles bisected by a winding strip of gold.

“Indulge me, highness.” Balthier says, and as Ashe steps away the golden path vanishes into a flawless field of blue. Balthier takes the glass pebble he’s been holding, tosses it out onto a random stone - and they all wince, at the sudden, searing blast of heat - the pebble vanished without a trace, not even a glint of melted glass remaining. Ashe steps up again, and the golden path returns - though Basch insists on going ahead of her, as they make their way across.

“Convenient thing, a princess.” Balthier says, halfway across. “We should have found one ages ago.”

Ashe has moved beyond glaring, to pretending he does not exist.

“Look at that.” Vaan says, when they reach the next, narrower room, lit from below by small, golden flames.

A mural, a timeline of the grand history of Raithwall’s reign. Balthier thinks of the contacts he has, historians across Ivalice who would happily risk life and limb for five minutes here or one sketch to bring back. Great panels of stone have been carefully painted, as fresh as the day they were hung - King Raithwall’s world in two dimensions, the stylized glory of his reign - and Balthier frowns, leaning in for a closer study of the words.

“Fran?”

She moves to his side, looking where he does but seeing more. “It has been… rewritten.”

Carefully done, but it’s clear the original inscription has been scrubbed clean, with new lines etched in its place - “thus did the Dynast-King unite the lands in peace forevermore, in glory and triumph and so on…” - Balthier murmurs through the old Kildean, noticing more scratches on the stone above, where the next piece of the mural seems slightly out alignment. “I believe this entire panel was replaced.” 

“Vandals?” Ashe says.

“Strange ones, if they were.” Balthier murmurs, taking in the scene. He’s seen tombs defaced by the rulers that followed, busts smashed and histories all but erased, the deeds of men belittled by those who would usurp them. Perhaps Raithwall’s heirs had entered this tomb without force, to make changes - but all the writing is generous, these murals more of the same, all unquestioned glory and praise to the life of the emperor. If it replaced what was _less_ complimentary - why bother? Once the man had died, why make him out to be even more of a paragon? A simple whim of the age, or some grand gesture to prove one’s loyalty to that grand heritage?

“Raithwall was bequeathed the Shards, that he would bring peace upon the whole of the world.” Ashe says, reaching out to touch that very moment, intricately etched upon the stone. Raithwall a small figure, dwarfed by the three brilliant Shards - and beyond and above him, equally brilliant beings of no earthly form, with crowns that stretched up to the heavens.

Gods. 

It has not mattered for years what of Doctor Cid’s madness is his own, or if some voice beyond the known world truly did recruit him to its purpose. The horror he had brought down on Nabudis rendered those questions of no import - and every Archadian ship launched since, every act of war is one more nail in a coffin that has long been more iron than wood.

But if these same gods spoke to Raithwall, as they spoke to his father - what might that say about the golden age, about Raithwall’s supposedly perfect world?

“Is this it, highness?” Balthier says quietly. “Is this how you wish to be remembered?”

Ashe’s eyes narrow. “It’s not about what I wish for. It’s about obligation. Responsibility. A thief could never-”

The ground rumbles, far above, a bit of dirt dislodged to patter down on the stones around them.

“We have company.” Fran says.

Balthier nods. “It would seem our advantage is quickly nearing its end.”

“I thought they couldn't get past the traps?” Vaan says.

“One or two won’t.” Balthier agrees. “The next will take note, and be the wiser for it. Fran and I are the best, but there are others well-versed enough in dangerous places. I advise we move quickly.”

————————————————

It’s one thing to say, but Raithwall’s tomb was not constructed for ease of use - Balthier thinks it must have been created after the principles of some pilgrim’s paths he’s seen, winding halls and labyrinthine corridors designed for the reflective and penitent, all resplendent with more homages to the king’s majesty and benevolence. A few more muffled thuds reach them through the walls - maybe they’re not ready to start blasting from above but that doesn’t mean someone hasn’t come here with firepower in the place of patience, and Balthier only hopes this place is as sturdy as it looks, not to start crumbling from the inside.

It’s hard to be particularly thrilled when they reach the long bridge, suspended above a dark chasm with little in the way of cover all the the way down, to where a waystone glimmers at the far end. Balthier’s not always glad to see them, though Fran has the same knack for knowing when they are true or trap as she does with all else. 

A shame they don’t make it more than halfway before they hear footsteps from behind, and a bullet cuts a chip into the stone at Ashe’s feet. 

“Halt. Halt, or we will fire.”

The accents are not Archadian, as a dozen men descend the stairs with weapons raised, well-equipped for battle. Half with guns, the others with the air shimmering about them, the distinct haze of spellworks. 

Basch steps in front of Ashe, both he and Vaan in front with blades raised. 

“Princess Ashelia of Dalmasca, on behalf of the Rozarrian Empire we have come to take you and the Dawn Shard into our protection.”

“I do not require your assistance.” Ashe says, her own sword in hand. “And I do not care for threats.”

“I’ve heard there’s a Margrace that fancies himself a bit of a pirate.” Balthier says. “I’m surprised he’s not with you.”

These men may be Rozarrian, but that doesn’t mean they work for the royal family. Just as likely they’d sell off both princess and trinket to whoever was willing to make the highest bid.

Fran shifts slightly, ready to strike. She’s faster than most flintlocks, and Balthier is quick enough with his own gun. If he and Basch raise a shield, any first volley of spell and shrapnel ought to go wide, and the odds are poor but not entirely against -

Balthier has a better view of the far wall from this vantage, past where their enemies stand. He hadn’t bothered more than a glance at it before, though in this new light it proves quite the odd affair. A great, towering sculpture - an unearthly creature wielding massive stone blades, with claws clutching the stone, as if the entire wall might spring forth. Balthier’s seen it’s like before, an etching in some old book or another. A warning - now, what did it… 

Glowing eyes slowly open, stone swords swinging through the air as claws like great stalagmites rise, digging into the stone as the entire wall drags itself forward. The Rozarrian furthest back doesn’t have time to do more than turn, to see his doom upon him before he is flung with a wet crunch over the side of the bridge, vanishing into the dark.

“Ah, yes.” Balthier says. “That was it.”

Of all the ways to leave this world, he absolutely refuses to die by _wall_. At least it gets the Rozarrians' attention, the company turning as one as the creature gains their full attention, swords and claws lashing out to finish off a few more of them who had not quite been out of reach. Balthier catches a glimmer from a body being dragged beneath the claws - one of their demolitions men, and yes that’s a bomb he was in the middle of setting up, killed just in time to have it primed as it disappears beneath the bulk of the great creature.

“Go!” Balthier turns, shouting. “Go now!”

The shockwave knocks him off his feet, but Balthier doesn’t bother to look, hears the crumbling of the bridge and the roar of the demon wall as it follows and the screams of the Rozarrians as he runs, Fran a few paces ahead and Penelo nearly at his side but the bomb was strong enough to destroy the path ahead as well as the one behind, he can watch it crumbling under their feet, slab by slab - sees Ashe stumble, nearly falling but Vaan grabs her, yanks her forward. Lunging for the waystone even as it begins to plunge, unanchored, and Ashe reaches for it, still holding Vaan’s hand as they vanish together. 

Fran leaps high, to an open doorway, turning to catch Basch’s hand as he reaches for her. The path is crumbling too fast for Balthier to make the same attempt but he sees another hall below the bridge, an open path as the floor gives way. Penelo sees it too, and then they’re sliding down at an increasingly steep angle, riding the falling bridge down. Balthier grabs her, mid-leap, turns his shoulder to take the brunt of the blow when they land. Rather inelegant, crashing across the stone floor as the roar of the collapse fills the air around them and without the princess to light the path, the world goes very dark.

Balthier waits for a moment in the aftermath. Simply breathing, Penelo gasping as well, hands clutched hard against his vest. He calls up a small flame in one hand, and although she is wide-eyed she does not seem ready to panic, and they’re both relatively unscathed. 

“Well,” he says, “at least now we can say we’ve done that.”

————————————

He takes a moment, constructing a rough map in his head of where they’ve been and what might lie ahead. Fran had said they were moving in the right direction - which doesn’t give him all that much to go on, frankly, but Balthier will make do.

It seems slightly like sacrilege to be bored already with this place, but he and Penelo seem to have wandered in behind the scenes, to a set of rooms much less glamorous than the ones behind them. A few even appear half-finished, murals sketched out but not colored over - were these intended for Raithwall’s own children, expecting to be buried in the tomb of their father until they’d apparently changed their minds?

All questions for another hour - that is, if anything remains of this place once they’re through with it. Balthier has heard no more sounds of pursuit, but they are hardly the main target. Hopefully Ashe and Vaan will be able to pass by any more traps or temperamental walls without injury. 

It’s hard to complain of his own companion - Penelo quiet and attentive, with a wary eye to the corners of every room for any stones out of place, or slightly glowing glyphs. Without Ashe, they’ve lost most of their illumination, and though it’s second nature to Balthier, he can imagine all this through her eyes and it must be terrifying.

Never let it be said he would fail a lady in need.

“You are now familiar with the first rule of sky piracy - never rely on a plan, or a princess.” Balthier smiles. “I admit, all this grave robbing won’t have quite the same appeal without Her Highness’ disapproval, and I’d prefer not to tarry regardless. If we’re late, I’ll have to listen to Fran gloat.”

“She gloats?”

“In a viera fashion. It’s all quite silent - but a particular sort of silence. The smug kind. Trust me.”

The level they’re on has mostly traded traps for more pedestrian complications - half-built staircases, chasms where spells ought to pave the way, but no princess leaves them edging instead along the thinnest beams of stone. The sort of thing that wouldn’t make Fran blink twice, though it seems equally as unimpressive to a dancing girl, Penelo even offering to go first to make sure it will hold their weight. Brave, and small enough to navigate these tight corridors with ease - light enough that he can lift her, and strong enough to pull him up after. Not quite everything it takes, to be an adventurer, but she has the makings of a proper start.

“Will you join your friend’s crew, then, when he takes to the skies? Partners, as Fran and I are?”

“… maybe.” Penelo says, with a little laugh, as if startled by the question, the thought she might do all this again. “Maybe not _quite_ as impressive.”

“I admit, you found us on a particularly good day.” 

Penelo gives him an odd look. “The day you were sent to Nalbina?”

“And yet here we stand.” Balthier says. “The second rule of sky piracy, it is always preferable to look ahead-“

He comes to a sudden halt, Penelo a step behind, with the path ahead the same blue weave of magicks it had been before, but without Ashe to guide the safe way through.

“Well now,” Balthier crouches down, studying the design. “Hm… there is certainly a pattern to it, though not the sort of thing one prefers to pick out by firelight. Still, I suppose we might make our way in relative safety with the help of a few dozen thrown stones. Although, I can imagine a faster route…”

“How?”

“I suppose that depends on whether or not you’ll let me borrow that piece of Nethicite in your pocket?”

He says it mildly enough, but Penelo goes very still. Her hands tighten on her staff, eyes flicking from the spell in his hand to the gun at his side and Balthier is careful not to move.

“Blame Fran.” He says, more gently. “A keen nose - she took note of it in Bhujerba. Of course, she would also gut me and hang what she found from the Strahl for a windsock, should I prove a less-than-charming rogue. I will not take it from you, though I must say, I am curious how you managed to steal it away from Larsa Solidor.” 

“He… he gave it to me. I don’t know why, I don’t… he wanted me to keep it safe.”

“A rather dangerous gift, and here I understood him to be the civilized one of the family.”

Balthier is still not sure what to make of that, Larsa stealing behind his brother’s back with a pocket full of Draklor’s Nethicite. If the boy is truly foolish enough to believe that Vayne would understand, that he would prove ally when it becomes inconvenient, let alone if Larsa should move counter to his plans… 

“Does Her Highness know?”

Penelo doesn’t have to say a word, but frowns when Balthier chuckles.

“It’s not that I don’t trust Lady Ashe…” Penelo starts, but what else can she say when it is exactly that? Balthier’s seen all that she has, and it’s all the more meaningful to her - Ashe is her queen. A woman who has said perhaps five words total to her loyal subjects in their time together, and for all the princess holds fast to saving her homeland, for upholding the honor of Dalmasca, she does not seem to be as concerned with those who must endure her noble restoration. 

“As a rule, you don’t need to go around explaining yourself to pirates.” Balthier says, and then, quieter. “Does Vaan know?”

Also no, though by the look on her face this betrayal is far more personal, and perhaps Penelo herself does not know all the reasons why. Truly, she shouldn’t be involved in this at all, and neither should the boy. Balthier’s had years to deal with the expanse of what’s at stake, to set himself into the proper place at the proper moment - and look where it’s gained him. Traipsing through an enchanted cellar, surrounded by danger and lit by a single, guttering flame - and when Penelo draws the Nethicite free from its shielded bag even that goes out, the magicks dragged from his fingertips in an instant.

“It’s all right.” Balthier says, as she flinches at the sudden darkness. “We’re still here.”

He reaches out, her hand connecting with his and the Nethicite between them, and he doesn’t have to suggest that they stay close. Balthier stretches their joined hands out over the first tile, watching the pattern flicker and go dark even as the Nethicite brightens in response. A slow but steady progression, defusing each tile in turn, and the Nethicite continues to draw even more Mist from the surrounding air without any sign of overflow or change in temperature. It seems so mundane a thing for all it has done - nearly industrial grade, the crystal lacking a single complimentary facet - and yet this is everything his father sacrificed life and sanity for, bleeding light gently between his fingers. 

_All these years, and still jealous of a stone._

“… Balthier?” Penelo whispers, and he realizes he’s gone still in the darkness in the middle of a half-active trap and that is hardly fair to do to a partner, even a temporary one.

“My apologies. I didn’t-”

“No.” Penelo says, her voice still small, pointing toward the wall. “Look.”

He hadn’t noticed it before, too busy worrying about the trap beneath their feet - but it’s clear what’s caught her eye. A new mural, and he carefully raises the Nethicite up, leans closer for a better view. He watches the pale, green-tinged light bounce off a world on fire, the scene wrought with the same careful detail as all the others, but this a moment of pure destruction. Buildings toppling, the skies cracked and rent as bodies lie scattered across the ground, the living bent down in agony, arms raised in twisted supplication and flames everywhere, everything burning around a figure who stands in the center, with a single crystal this time, raised above his head. 

The gods, conveniently, are nowhere to be found.

“It would appear they didn’t get around to replacing this one.” Balthier says.

“Is that… did it happen like that in Nabudis?” Penelo says.

“It couldn’t have. If Raithwall ever used the Shards so, we would still be living among the evidence.” Unless, of course, he’d done something so massive that they don’t even realize they’re living in the aftermath. Balthier had often wondered about that.

“Did you ever go there?” Penelo says. “Did you see the city, before?”

No detail to the figure beneath the shining Cryst, overlaid with what looks like mother of pearl, glimmering and indistinct. It could be anyone taking up that power, anyone at all laying waste to all the world.

“We rarely missed a festival day. The moogles demanded it, as part of their service. Everyone would celebrate on the lake.” Balthier says quietly. “Games of chance, and skill. Archery contests on moving ships. I once watched Fran pin a petal to the tree it fell from.”

A sudden jolt shakes the floor, the Nethicite brightening for a moment in response - and in the distance, there is a very loud roar.

“The Rozarrians?” Penelo says, but Balthier shakes his head. The sound comes from ahead of them, and whatever it is, they’re headed straight into its path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is not my favorite chapter to write of not my favorite story to write, but I figured I finally had half a decent framing element to wrap my head around it, and it was either put out something as good as I can that still might not be 100% perfect or wait another two years in the hope something better comes along. Apologies for any overlooked errors.
> 
> 2\. Thanks everybody who commented or clicked the kudos. I figured everyone had given this one up long ago, but hey, if they can HD remake it I can keep plodding along.


	3. Chapter 3

No one is on her side.

Without the Shard, Ashe might as well make this tomb her own. The Resistance will no longer exist without it, Vossler had made that quite clear, and the Marquis’ own terms are equally plain. Her uncle, who mourned her father’s betrayal behind closed doors - and he has not opened them, even with Archadia’s treachery undeniable. He is no servant of the Empire - he cares for her, wishes to see her restored, of course - but not until she proves that she can do as she claims, that by aiding her Bhujerba will not go the way of those countries it watches from afar.

Ashe understands his position, the demands upon him - but still, she had hoped…

Balthier’s concerns are simple enough, a greed unencumbered by any interest in her feelings or her fate - her failure costs him nothing. He does not believe her capable of taking on Vayne Soldior, let alone his empire. The pirate is here only to see her fall, and profit from the results. Watching her with the idle contemplation of a carrion bird.

And then there is Captain Fon Ronsenberg. Ashe hardly recognizes Basch as he is now, not at all the proud, strong warrior that had sparred with Vossler in the castle courtyard, years ago. The man her father trusted, who had accompanied her husband to Nalbina, and returned alone. It had been cruel of her to accuse him of failure - Ashe doesn’t blame him, what she knows of war is enough to understand it is chaos, where the best of men are left as nameless bodies in the dust. 

He could not protect Rasler any more than he can protect her. 

Why doesn’t he hate her for what this fight has cost him? As if duty and honor were worth two years chained in the ground. It must be for her father, all this merely penance in his name. Ashe finds his unswerving devotion more unnerving than any blame, because she knows he does not think she can win. Basch will die for her, this is the fate he has resigned himself to. An honorable death to absolve him of all that came before, and the only thing he expects she can give him now.

What did he know, back during the war? What did Vossler know of the Shards? Her father’s trusted advisors - and what secrets are they keeping from her even now? What can she trust of anyone, anymore?

It’s a foolish thing, given their current circumstances, but Ashe hopes Basch is wrong, that there is no teleport stone, no hidden way out. Even if it means they have to fight their way through half the Archadian army. Anything is better than knowing her father kept secrets, that he’d lied to her - that even _he_ believed her incapable of protecting Dalmasca.

If Ashe was meant to do nothing more than watch her homeland vanish into Archadia’s shadow, why not let her die with him?

—————————————

She stumbles back from the waystone even as the light fades from it, its other half permanently lost. The corridor is surreally quiet, with no sign of the chaos that had engulfed them mere moments before.

“Are you all right?” She says. The young man - Vaan, that is his name - looks up, hands on his knees and breathing hard. Ashe is breathless too, but wills her voice to steady calm. “Did you see the others?”

“Yeah.” Vaan nods. “I saw… everyone split up, but I think they’re all right.”

It isn’t as if they can do much about it, in any case.

“We need to keep moving.” Ashe says. “They can meet up with us, further on.”

“What if they aren’t there?”

“Then we’ll find them.” Ashe says, though if Balthier wished to collect his reward and just keep walking, she could hardly complain. Vaan nods, as if it had been a request rather than an order.

The teleport stone has set them down among another series of massive rooms, with archways off in all four corners and shadowed, towering piles of what must be treasure at last, King Raithwall’s world sent down to rest at his side, buried with him as tribute for the afterlife. 

Ashe had buried her husband with his sword and armor, and a bouquet of Galbana lilies tied with a lock of her hair. He should have been laid to rest in Nalbina, in honor alongside all the great kings of his line - but they aren’t there anymore. Nothing is there anymore.

Each step she takes illuminates the path around them - Ashe could feel the tomb waking up, the moment she’d stepped inside, and what feels like a great, beating heart pulsing away at its center, the very place they’re walking toward.

It doesn’t matter what’s ahead of them, how great the danger. There is nothing to be done but-

Ashe jumps at the sound of a shattering pot, Vaan wincing as he backs away from where the next in the stack is still wobbling. 

“Oops.”

“Fewer things might break if you refrained from touching them.” Ashe observes, and remembers that Balthier had offered similar advice. The boy is overeager, careless in a way she ought to find infuriating, but instead Ashe feels something much closer to envy.

“Sorry.” Vaan says, not really meaning it. “It’s not like anyone’s using them.” He shuffles a half-step closer, peering into the smashed container. “Are you really not interested in what’s inside?”

Ashe ought to be, this is her heritage - somewhat the point of all of this, but where is the room for any sense of curiosity or wonder, when it seems her whole life has flattened out to a series of instructions, step-by-step and she doesn’t dare to look too far ahead or question the path at her feet. Ashe allows herself a breath, and moves toward where he’s standing.

“It looks like a wine cask.”

“Yeah, but,” Vaan reaches down, pulls his hand up and lets the grains slip through his fingers. “Sand?”

“It’s a symbol, like the glass in the entranceway.” Ashe says, tapping at another rotted seal, tipping the jug just far enough to let more sand hit the floor. “Raithwall was the greatest of kings, and this was all he desired for himself, for his memory.”

Maybe not even this much, but his subjects could not bear the thought of no tribute at all. Ashe walks slowly down the rows of intricately sculpted figures - a herd of oxen, a flock of chocobos pulling carts piled high with plain, false treasures. Carefully, she lifts a lid on an box etched to resemble metal and wood, to reveal a bounty of worthless clay coins, each carefully stamped with the seal of the Dynast-King. 

“Balthier’s going to be disappointed.” Vaan says.

Ashe does smile, then. “One hardly imagines it’s the first time. He-”

The air shivers, and the coin in her hand gleams gold. Ashe drops it, the clay barely making a sound when it hits the floor.

“What?” Vaan says. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Ashe lies. It was a relief to enter the tomb, after so long in the burning sun, but now the air is clammy rather than cool, thick with Mist and harder to breathe. She closes one hand in a tight fist.

“You should stay here.” Ashe says. “I’ll scout ahead for traps, to make certain it’s safe.”

“What?” Vaan protests. “No way. That’s dangerous.”

“I wasn’t asking your permission.” Ashe says, a little ice creeping into her tone. “Wait here. I’ll come back when I’m sure it’s all right.” 

“Basch wouldn’t-“

“Basch isn’t here,” Ashe says, and starts walking, “and we’ll find him faster if you don’t argue.”

Vaan sighs, but no footsteps follow hers down the hall. Why is this so difficult? What’s wrong with her, that she cannot even convince a single boy - one of her own sworn subjects - to obey her orders? If he is such a lost cause, what hope does she have to convince anyone else? 

The hallway before her opens up to a larger corridor, high and grand and seemingly free from danger, the air full only of dust and empty centuries. Ashe moves slowly, carefully even so - and freezes, breath catching as she stares into a reflection no longer wearing her travel-stained clothes, but a suit of armor gilt in gold and shining. 

A true Queen of Dalmasca, with a winged helm and a gleaming sword and the crest of her father, of her father’s father adorning the shield at her side.

A moment passes, and the armor melts away to a gown that glitters with gemstones, woven in thin and gleaming ropes that twine from the crown of her head to her shoulders to her fingertips, framing a long gown of purest white, the train trailing behind her into the shadows. The gown of a bride, if she were to be wed to the gods themselves.

“Which do you prefer?” Rasler says, standing at her side. “They both suit you.”

Ashe does not gasp, or flinch this time. Of all the places in the world, why wouldn’t he be here?

“I know what you are.” She says, as the vision fades, the wall once more a span of solid stone. “You’re one of Raithwall’s gods.”

“I am the servant of the rightful ruler of Ivalice.” His voice is velvet soft. “And I am very glad to see you safe, Ashe.”

“Safe?” Ashe says, her voice cracking on the word, bitter humor like dark poison under her skin. It should be frightening to see him again, for this to be real again, but what can he do to her, truly? How much worse could madness be than what she faces now? “Do you know why I’m here? Do you even understand what’s happened?”

Instead of answering, he turns, strolling slowly away and Ashe moves after him, forcing herself not to run to catch up even though she’s chasing at his heels - and the room is changing again, the walls unfolding, giving way to an onrush of star-strewn darkness and flickering torches, a perfumed garden rising in lush tangles all around her, adorned with firefly sparks.

Parts of it seems familiar, as she climbs the stairs and passes windows with long views over a vast city-scape. Dalmasca has diminished since the time of King Raithwall - other lands have built much larger cities and higher towers by which to survey the world, and the deserts have claimed many of the furthest points of light she can see in this place - her kingdom in its glory, as the seat of the Dynast-King.

“What has been lost, restored.” Rasler’s spirit, the god that wears his face, murmurs in her ear and Ashe does startle back this time. She had not even seen him move, though there is nothing in his expression but that unshakable calm, that gentle love. 

He is not her husband. 

She has already failed her husband.

“Bhujerba will not aid us. The Marquis says there must be proof of who I am shown to the world, before anything can be achieved.”

“So you will present yourself with the Dawn Shard in hand, and all will be well.”

Rasler says it simply enough, but there is a knowingness in his eyes - as there was in Balthier’s, a pirate’s intuition of the truth. Ashe does not believe the worst of what he implies, that Ondore cares no more for her than what she can do for him, that this is all some ploy to gain the Shard and nothing else, but… 

“My uncle has his obligations. I know that. He must do what he thinks is best for Bhujerba, even above his concern for Dalmasca. I do not expect him to win this war for me.”

“Ashelia.” There is only sympathy in his eyes and his tone and she cannot bear it. 

“He will not join me. No one believes I can fight the Empire, let alone win. I have no army, and no authority. Is that what you wish me to say?” She snaps. “We failed to stop Vayne Soldior. _I_ failed.”

“Such sorrow, my love. What is it that you fear? A lack of confidence? Of allies?” He chuckles, low and sure. “Oh Ashe, you _need_ no allies.”

Ashe does not realize how far she’s traveled, or how close the crystal must have brought them from the start - but as the gardens slip back into the shadows here she is, standing in the central chamber of Raithwall’s Tomb.

A stone sarcophagus rests in its center, the Dynast-King himself stretched out, twice as large as life - and in one vast, sculpted hand rests an image of the blade that cut the Cryst, and in the other - the Dawn Shard. It is what they have come here to find, alight with hidden fires - but Ashe’s eyes are drawn instead to the far corner of the room, and the teleport stone waiting there.

“My father _was_ here.” Ashe says. “Why didn’t he take the Shard? Why did he do nothing?”

“You were our stewards. Our chosen.” The phantom Rasler says, with a diplomat’s care. “After Raithwall left this world, the pride of those who followed convinced them that we were unnecessary, that they could govern without our gifts or counsel. I fear you have been left to face the consequences of that choice.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

It should have been like this always. Ashe should have demanded the truth from Rasler and her father and everyone, should have been in the room when these decisions were made. It was wrong of her to trust even in those who swore they loved her, that they had her best interests at heart. Maybe it wouldn’t have saved her, or changed any of this, but at least she would have known.

“King Raminas made his choice, Ashe. As you must make yours.”

The stone beneath her feet still pulses in a steady rhythm, stronger than ever, as she watches the smallest wisps of Mist rise and resettle at her feet.

“We’re not alone here, are we?”

“A guardian of the Dawn Shard.” Rasler says. “Belias, I believe it was once named. ‘By royal blood bound, by royal will revealed.’ It is yours, as I am. You need not fear it. Call it forth, if you like.”

Ashe can feel the tidal pull of it, a spell just at the edge of being cast. It reaches for her, but she does not reach back. Instead, she steps carefully around the edge of the tomb, to where the Dawn Shard glimmers, waiting, lit from within like a sleeping star.

“Have a care, my love. You seek the truth that killed your father.”

“Vayne Solidor killed my father.” Ashe says, and takes up the Shard - and then the whole world shatters, collapsing around her as the past rushes in - and there is the Dynast-King, and a choice, and an end to a world that had never been.

——————

It is an hour, or an age, when Ashe returns to herself. Sitting against the side of the sarcophagus, with the Dawn Shard glinting in her hand and her false husband leaning against the wall beside her. Rasler looks much less the phantom now, here in this place. So much Mist. The Viera had said as much.

“Do you remember once, when you visited Nabudis as a girl, and we hid away together all afternoon? Until they had to call the guard to track us down?”

A short time ago, Ashe would have gasped or demanded an explanation or shouted him down for daring to claim such a memory. A few hours ago, and she would have at least managed a cold rebuff. Now, it seems pointless to bother with more than a stare. He is either truly some part her husband returned, or he is a god, or it is a careful guess. It does not matter so much anymore.

“Raithwall killed them. He killed them all.” A whole people, like the moogles or the seeq or the bangaa - but even worse, that no one remembers it, that there is nothing left to remember.

“It was war, Ashe.”

“No.” She shakes her head - there are harsh truths to be endured and there are ugly decisions and then there is… whatever that was. Whatever she saw. Past any excuse or reasoning. “My father, he knew, and that’s why he…”

“King Raithwall blamed the gods for their benevolence, and the sons and daughters of Dalmasca were made to suffer for it.” 

“Benevolence?” Ashe says, furious, but the phantom does not flinch.

“What would you have had him do? King Raithwall could not win that battle as he was - his people would have been slaughtered and subjugated, denied all the world that has come henceforth. No Galtean Alliance, no great age of peace - perhaps no Dalmasca, not as you know it. The gods are powerful, Ashe, but even great Faram cannot deny the world its appetites.”

“My father was right.” Ashe says. “I cannot wield that power. No one can.”

“Then Dalmasca shall fall and be forgotten, as have so many kingdoms before her.” He looks almost human now, but his eyes still burn at the edges with fire, green and gold. “Archades shall suffer no consequence for all that it has done, and will do again - and when Rozarria moves, as they must, and Archadia strikes back, who will be there to protect Rabanastre and her people? Who will have the strength, or care enough to try?” 

“I could… give my uncle the Shard, I could show him. I could explain…” 

Ashe trails off. If it were that easy, surely her father would have done so. It is a truth meant for her alone, and she can already hear his response, kind and patient and brushing aside what he will see as a child’s tale - as a sign, perhaps, that she has been pushed too far. Who could believe it? If not for the glint of the Cryst in her hand, for what she had seen Ashe would never believe it.

“It will not stop them searching.” Rasler says. “The Cryst has slept safe for thousands of years, but even now Archadia pushes beyond what men were meant to know and reach for, into the realm of the gods.”

“The Nethicite.” 

He nods. “Archadia knows of the Sun-Cryst, Ashe. They are aware of what it can do, and hungry for that power. After all that has happened, after the fate of your father and of Nabudis, do you think they would hesitate for a moment to erase Dalmasca from the world? What stops them now, Cryst or no? It may only be a matter of time.”

He’s not wrong. Whatever her father believed of the chance to treat for peace, this is not the world he could have known would come of it. One where his sacrifice was not enough to stop what had been started, and even if she runs with the Dawn Shard, even if she hides - 

“Who is to say it must all play out the same? That you must make the same mistake that Raithwall did.” Rasler says. “It may simply be that the Dynast-King lacked the skill to wield the Cryst as he should have. A Dynast-Queen might fare far better.”

Slowly, not looking at him, Ashe gets to her feet, the revelations of a few moments ago still shivering through her bones - but what is the point of hesitation? Of wishing the world were other than it is? If the Cryst will not remain hidden, if someone _must_ claim it…

_Father… oh father. I’m sorry._

“… and if I did this, you would be with me?” Two hard, empty years of living as a dead woman, and returning to the realm of the living hasn’t changed things the way it was supposed to, hasn’t made anything the way it was. Maybe this is all that awaits her, a mirror version of her former life, with a husband who isn’t her husband, but is more than what she has alone. 

Rasler reaches out, takes her hand - and he’s warm. If she had not been there to see him buried, Ashe would believe him as real as she is.

“I will be at your side, my Queen, until the last star falls from an empty sky.”

“I told you, he didn’t talk like that.”

“No?” He smiles, and just for a moment, she can almost believe. “Let me try again - I love you, Ashelia of Dalmasca. I always will.”

He leans in, slowly, and Ashe does not move forward - but she does not draw away.

“You shouldn’t trust him.”

Vaan stands a dozen paces away, glaring at them with his sword drawn - pointed at Rasler. Ashe steps back, alarm and surprise and anger at the thought that this boy would dare to play her conscience - and that she might need it.

“I told you to wait.” Ashe says, but Vaan does not answer, or move. For his part, Rasler seems more amused than offended - neither of which would have matched the real him, but what does she know? Ashe never saw her husband in a moment like this. 

“Already, a knight stands strong and ready to defend his Queen. Yet he seems to be confused - are we not all on the same side?” 

“I don’t know what you are, or what you want.” Vaan says. “I fight for Dalmasca.” 

“I _am_ Dalmasca.” Ashe says. “Do you raise your sword to me?”

“No. I…” The blade wavers, and slowly Vaan lets it drop. “I don’t know what he is, or what he told you to do, but you shouldn’t believe him.”

Ashe frowns. “How can you even-“

“He took up the Dusk Shard, in Rabanastre.” Rasler says, studying Vaan with mild curiosity. “Not for very long, but it seems it was enough.”

“Ashe-“

“You told Basch that you wished to serve.” She cuts him off. “Was that a lie?”

“No, but…”

“I am your queen and sovereign, and it is your sworn duty to obey me.” It does not sound as it ought - she should be stronger, more sure. If Ashe were stronger he would believe her already. “None of this… none of this is the way I would have wished for it, but with your help I swear to you, I will restore Dalmasca. I will avenge the wrongs against both of us, and make our country strong again, that no one will dare to treat us so cruelly. So I ask you, Vaan… I ask you for myself - will you be my knight?”

Before he can answer, the sound of heavy footfalls echoes down the stone hall, close and closer - soldiers, an entire squadron advancing on them, all in Archadian colors. 

“We are here for the Dawn Shard. You are prisoners of the Empire. Lay down your arms and surrender.”

The unquestioned arrogance of it turns her blood to fire, as Vaan braces himself to meet them, sword at the ready.

“They’ll kill the boy, Ashe.” Rasler murmurs, but already the magic is uncurling beneath her, invisible chains unlocking as the great beast is drawn from its slumber.

“No,” Ashe says. “No, they won’t.”

The first soldier dies before he can scream, cut in half by a sword of no human reckoning, an impossible blade that surges up from the floor, the flaring form of Belias quickly rising with a roar that leaves the entire tomb trembling.

Basch and the viera arrive what seems like mere moments later, with Penelo and the pirate on their heels - drawn by the sounds of battle, but there is nothing left to fight, the Esper slipping back to its enspelled slumber with the floor of the tomb now awash in red and ash and scattered bits of useless armor. 

Ashe watches as Balthier surveys the scene, his expression deliberately shuttered when he looks at her - cautious, measuring - and she can’t help the hot spark of satisfaction at the sight, that she may now be more than the naive, powerless princess. 

A respect paid for in blood, but what other world is there?

———————————————————— 

“So, we have it then,” Vossler says, “the Dawn Shard.”

The best news there’s been in weeks, though Vossler had studied the Shard with wary caution, and it has now been carefully hidden away. 

The teleport stone had brought them to a remote corner of Dalmasca, though Vossler and his men had been on the lookout and it had only taken a handful of hours for them to arrive here, a safe house Ashe has been to once before, perhaps a year ago, with the same lavender blanket decorating the far wall, threads of blue woven here and there between the purple. A dried flower rests in an empty vase and next to it there is a dead beetle on the sill, covered in dust. All as she remembers it. Nothing changes, and everything does.

“Highness?” Basch says softly.

“I want you to take it, Vossler. Keep it safe.” Ashe says. “It is too dangerous to travel with by airship, and you have some experience with hiding valuable things.”

A small smile between them - with this victory, she has restored his confidence in her. 

It used to matter more.

If Ashe puts a greater distance between her and the Shard, the shade of her husband cannot visit her. It is still unnerving, to know that Rasler might appear at any moment - even more so, that she doesn’t know whether to want it or not. It does not seem the most terrible of fates anymore, to have him close by.

 _Are you really going to do as he asks? Can you?_

What the Shard showed her, what happened to King Raithwall, the true power of the Sun-Cryst - Ashe needs a respite, to think on all that she has seen, to consider her next step. If it is truly all a matter of inevitability, as the shade of her husband would argue it…

_Father, help me._

A power to destroy Archadia beyond salvation, to tear Vayne Solidor and his blood-stained house from the memory of the world. Is this not what she wanted, all along? A vengeance to match what he and his have done to her? At least if she is the one to take up the Sun-Cryst, Dalmasca will be safe.

Vaan watches her quietly, and perhaps he always had, but now Ashe feels the weight of his gaze. He doesn’t know most of what transpired, what she saw within the Cryst, but he sees the spirit that follows her, and does not trust it. Maybe he thinks the same of her.

Vossler nods. “What of your plans, Majesty?”

“I will go to Bur-Omisace, and gain audience with the Gran Kiltias to plead our case.”

Ashe will speak with him… of many things. The Helgas people are perhaps the wisest of all in Ivalice - historians, philosophers and prophets - and if anyone can tell her if what she saw in the Dawn Shard was true, if anyone can guide her path forward… 

“The Rozarrians were there as well, in Raithwall’s Tomb.” Basch says. “With tensions between the empires so high, we cannot be ignored.”

Vossler is pleased, of course, that Ashe does not mention Bhujerba, or returning there - but she knows now what her father did, why there could be no alliances with the Sun-Cryst in the world, waiting to be found.

“Well, as we have yet to see a single copper for all of this so-called treasure hunting, it seems we shall remain at your service.” Balthier does not bother to hide his irritation. The moogles are bringing the Strahl around, and it should arrive within the next day or so. “Let us only hope the next legendary ruin might at least see my ship in new aft rings. A man can dream.”

———————————

Hours later, Ashe walks down the hall to her borrowed rooms. The Dawn Shard is on the floor below her, still ensconced in its space beneath the floorboards, but she feels painfully aware of it, of the exact distance between them. Rasler has not returned since they quit Raithwall’s Tomb, and she hopes to remain alone. Wants to believe that it is true.

“So how did things go, with the princess?”

Penelo’s voice comes through the door. Ashe pauses in mid-stride, biting at her lip. 

“Fine.”

A sigh from the girl, as if one-word answers are hardly rare.

“I just… all those soldiers, and then that monster…”

Ashe hears a thump, perhaps a pack tossed carelessly to the floor. “You don’t need to worry about it, Penelo. It’s all over now.”

“You’ve been quiet, Vaan. More than normal. Did… anything else happen in there?”

Ashe waits, and the silence waits with her.

“No, it’s fine. Nothing happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Ashe in armor inspired by ‘Even as the Curtain Falls’ by aphelion orion (http://archiveofourown.org/works/209963) who writes an Ivalice I aspire to match.


	4. Chapter 4

As Seneschal to the newly installed Lord Consul of Rabanastre, Loren has a Saurian’s share of tasks to keep himself occupied, in any direction he cares to look. An understatement to end them all, to say that he never expected to find himself here. 

At worst, Loren had always assumed he would be dismissed out of hand the moment the Lord Consul arrived, although he’d thought it most likely he would be delegated to the same series of irksome and tedious tasks as he had under the interim government - handling dismissed mistresses and unpaid bills and irate lesser officials while scrambling to procure whatever new and stylish frippery would be least possible to have delivered from Archadia, scrambling to do any work of value on his own time.

After that first eventful evening, it seemed most prudent to quietly gather all those expectations and toss them out the nearest window. There is no chance of predicting what the Lord Consul might do next, now that Loren has found his most trying occupation to be that of finding the safest ways of indulging the man's seemingly endless curiosity. 

It had been difficult enough to convince him not to wander the streets completely unprotected, though Loren had finally been able to negotiate a temporary compromise - One afternoon a week where the Lord Consul will meet with vetted petitioners who wished to plead their case, to bring the city’s problems to his attention, and discuss how they might be solved.

The Lord Consul still mentions Lowtown now and then, which is truly the worst of all possible ideas, but Loren believes it may be a matter of figuring out a way to bring him down there or the panicked scramble to bring him _back_ , when he finally gets bored enough to sneak off on his own. 

Of course, whatever his title, Loren knows that his position is unofficially subordinate to the entire artificer’s guild of Rabanastre, the palace a revolving door of shipwrights and mechanics practically from the start. It has certainly rewarded those who believed the Lord Consul’s ascension might bring greater prosperity to the city - an entire new division being arranged in the government at speed, to handle moving forward with airship construction and refinement, and any Archadian of standing now occupied with fighting each other for the best deals.

No one on either side is entirely pleased with the division between Archadian and Dalmascan involvement, but at least everyone still has a voice. Vayne Solidor, of all people, seems to believe in the most noble ambitions of the Empire, that Rabanastre is more than simply resource to be exploited.

Certainly, it is a place of rare privilege to be so close to a man Loren’s only known as a collection of rumors and suppositions. It is easy to see where the questions come from - the Lord Consul’s manner is cool and reserved, and it feels as if he is holding back, keeping secrets even when the conversation turns to trivial matters. He has not proved a cruel man, but Loren has not forgotten what Vayne said on the night of the fete, can imagine that if the Lord Consul truly deemed it necessary, he could give the order, could lay waste to all of Rabanastre without hesitation.

A consummate Archadian, the kind that Loren believed he had put at a fortunate distance - but perhaps he is exactly what they need, here and now. Of the varied reports that cross Loren’s desk each day, there is always the constant that shows the current position of the Rozarrian fleet. If they do grow bold, it may take no less than an Emperor’s son to see Rabanastre through to the other side.

If Vayne has no honest love for Dalmasca and its people, than at least he seems to have a true enough interest in its improvement and protection. If pressed, Loren would have to say that Vayne Solidor most reminds him of a watchmaker - he sets the gears, tests the careful tension of the springs and pays attention to the most minuscule of parts for the simple pleasure of doing so, of being able to watch all the pieces run smoothly.

The Lord Consul rewards cleverness and delicacy over brute force, but for all the tales of Solidor guile and treachery, he also works as hard as any man Loren has ever known. He did not take the offer of new lodgings within the palace, but even then Loren wonders if he could possibly arrive in the morning before Vayne is at his desk. If he might leave when the Lord Consul is not still looking over his papers, or in the middle of some meeting gone long. 

Loren had prepared himself for years of mostly pointless toil, ready to spend the majority of his effort undoing the damages of Archadian ignorance and indifference. Instead, here he is, second to an Imperial heir who’d all but laughed off the coup that met his arrival - it’s terrifying, and invigorating, and he finds himself looking forward to what each day might bring.

So yes, there are certainly any number of duties to keep him occupied - but for the better part of the afternoon Loren’s been ignoring all of them, distracted by the pretty, pale green envelope he’s turning over and over in his hand, tapping each corner against his desk. Staring once and again at the back flap, at the freshly-broken seal of House Rhedan. He’s read the contents a half-dozen times, not that it makes any more sense now than it did with the first baffled read.

_”My son, I hope this letter finds you in good health.  I am writing to let you know of my current intent, which should not prove too great an imposition…”_

His mother is coming to visit.

Which at least means that news of his advancement has reached home. Loren has to assume as much, as the note is stuffed to the corners with politeness in place of anything resembling facts or explanations. No mention of his father or family or the year-long silence preceding this announcement or the fact that this is the first time they have bothered to acknowledge that he even has a wife, or children. Risa will laugh at the news and invite her gladly - Dalmascans have strong customs when it comes to visitors, especially relatives, but Loren will not see her insulted, will not see his family treated as anything less than equal to what he might have found in Archadia.

Why come at all, though, if only to insult him to his face? They were hardly pleased with his choices, but they’ve already made their point. It seems a waste of time and coin simply to remind him.

Loren has no idea what to make of it, even though he can think of little else. Eventually, there is nothing to be done but leave his office for a stroll of the palace that will likely clear up nothing but at least offer a pleasant diversion.

It’s still early days, but so far the court of the Lord Consul has few of the military trappings of its predecessor, and instead seems set to establish itself a place of art and intellect. Vayne has opened the center courtyard to a parade of artificers and historians, speaking on this topic or that, along with local dancers and musicians performing among the imports from Archades.

Today, as Loren steps out of his office he can hear voices echoing gently off the marble pillars, calling gently to each other - a pair of Archadian singers performing a soaring aria, and for a moment even Loren is soothed by it, thoughts of home and trouble set aside for a moment in favor of simply admiring the music. He is not the only one, guards and servants both leaning in, pausing for a moment in their work, a small crowd loosely gathered around the border of the courtyard in both the lower and upper levels.

The music is even beautiful enough, it seems, to lure even the Lord Consul away from his desk. Vayne leans against a nearby pillar, his eyes closed, as open and unguarded as Loren has ever seen him and it strikes him as a sudden certainty - he is standing in the presence of Archadia’s next Emperor. It is not nearly the unnerving thought he expected it to be.

“Rabanastre has no formal opera house,” Vayne murmurs, with his eyes still closed, “though I find I do not feel the lack.”

Another of those rumors about the heir of Solidor that actually has some truth - if there is a way to catch the man off guard, Loren cannot imagine how. Maybe a viera might manage it.

“It’s quite lovely, your Grace. Do they hail from the capital?”

“I managed to convince them that the Dalmascan sun was a fair exchange for the voyage. I’m pleased that they seem to agree.”

Vayne does seem truly pleased, both by the music and the response. A watchmaker, listening to the mechanisms clicking softly away.

The Emperor is not a young man. The conjectures of what would happen after his passing had started years ago, before Loren had ever left home, and those discussions have only multiplied over time.  
The thought, then, of what will happen to Rabanastre, to Dalmasca when Gramis does quit the world - Loren can only hopes the Emperor will continue to hang on, for as long as he is able. Every day that passes here seems a bit more stable than the last.

If he should prove himself an asset to Vayne, such a connection might beyond even the wildest ambitions of his family. Of course, it could also mean the new Emperor might bring him along, when he returned to the capital to make his ascension. Loren thinks that he might dare risk passing on such an honor, for the sake of his family if nothing else. He thinks Vayne would let him do so - if there is a way to actually insult the man, Loren has not discovered it either.

It would certainly be interesting, though, to see for himself what Vayne Solidor would make of Archadia, given the opportunity.

“I may have a few more assignments for your pile.” Vayne says. “Another round of petitions from the Marshals that ought to stew in their own sauce for a bit. How do you fare at dodging responsibility?”

Loren smiles. “Could I get back to you on that, Lord Consul?”

“Good man.”  
—————————————

It is not so terrible a burden, for Loren to put forth his best effort at matching the Lord Consul’s long hours. Even the worst days are easier now, for having something to show at the end of them. 

Since the fete, the rebellion has been all but silent within the city walls, no further word on the princess, all rumors dwindling to silence beneath the notion that it had been a Rozarrian-led plot all along, that if there even had been a girl, she must have been one of theirs, a false princess sent to sow discord.

Loren doesn’t know if the Lord Consul helped to spread that rumor. He doesn’t particularly want to know. If they could settle things, if Rabanastre was stable and Dalmasca protected from the war - yes, he might try to help her. If she does live, if that schism could be mended and they could come to compromise then surely they would all know real peace - but there is nothing he can do for her now.

The unfortunate byproduct of all this relative peace, of his weariness and preoccupation with the letter in his pocket is that, at the end of the day, as he gets into his carriage for the journey home, Loren is too distracted to be smart.

He’s tired enough to ignore the first twinge of alarm, that vague sense of something amiss, but it isn’t until the second left that ought to be a right that Loren rouses himself enough to glance out the window - and he does not recognize the view.

A muted panic slowly rises in him - this may be some unforeseen detour, entirely innocent - but even as Loren leans forward to speak to the driver the door opens, two dark-clad figures clambering inside. He has time for half a shout before a blow knocks his head back against the other side of the carriage, and then there’s a blade against his throat. Loren freezes, watching small sparks of magick dance between the fingers of his attacker, the silent warning not to resist.

Which lasts up until the bag drops over his head, and then Loren lashes out in pure panic, certain that if he does not escape now it will be the last that anyone ever hears of him. He gets in one satisfying kick before that hand presses against his side and the magicks lash through him, punishing pain that locks up his entire body as the darkness rips away the world.

At first, when he comes to, the danger is all too strange and unfamiliar for Loren to be even be properly afraid. It’s only as realizes his arms hurt because they’re tied behind him, that the air is so hot and stale because there’s still a bag over his face that he feels the cold reality of things sinking in. Thieves would have simply dealt with him in an alley, and he’s certainly of no fortune grand enough to be worth ransoming.

The bag is ripped away without warning, and Loren does his best to rein in his reaction, school his expression into what an Archadian ought to have in moments like these. He strains to see the shadows watching him from behind the ring of torches, and wonders if they’re going to torture him, and how badly. He was never much of a soldier - not a particularly brave man, or strong, but this is his duty, and he will do his best to face it well, to not give them whatever it is they need to hurt the Lord Consul or Archadia. 

“Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Seneschal Rhedan?”

Loren doesn’t answer, not that it matters much. His vision clears enough that Loren can see beyond the torches, to the back wall, and the banner that proves his suspicions. The standard of the Dalmascan Royal Guard, the colors of the former king.

“I know who you are.” Loren says. “I understand what you want, but if you truly cared for your people-”

The slap is not entirely unexpected, although it does not draw blood or even rock the chair, so Loren supposes it was meant as a gentle warning. He wonders how long they’ll keep him here… wherever here is. How long it will take Risa to realize something’s wrong. She will be at home now, perhaps singing to the baby - or they may be playing a game, Sayel truly delighted with his new little brother. If he concentrates, Loren can almost see them all, and he tries to hold on to that image as hard as he can.

“Leave us.”

A rough voice, from somewhere outside the circle of shadowed faces, and one by one they vanish in the dark. Loren can’t help but feel relieved, not being loomed over by so many menacing strangers, even though there is no reason to think his situation has improved. Even though a single man remains, dragging his chair forward, sitting down inside the circle of torchlight. His dark eyes glitter, hard as magicite.

“You know who I am?”

Loren nods, swallows. “Vossler Azaleas, leader of the rebellion.”

“Captain Azaleas, of the Order of the Knights of Dalmasca. Leader of the Resistance. Bodyguard of Princess Ashelia B’nargin Dalmasca, rightful heir of the kingdom of Dalmasca.”

Loren’s eyes flick over his shoulder, even though there’s nothing to see, even though he couldn’t have seen her if she was among those in the circle.

“She’s not here.” Vossler says. “Her Highness is safe, far from the reach of Vayne Solidor.”

Which is not likely to be true, unless she has taken up harbor in Rozarria, and surely they would not be quiet about such a turn of events. Vossler reaches down for a bag at his side, and Loren forces himself not to react to whatever he’s about to be threatened with. He expects a weapon - a knife, or perhaps even a hammer - so at first, the strange, pale stone almost seems like a relief - and then Loren looks at it, truly _looks._

“You know what this is?”

It could be a fake. No one _really_ knows what the Dawn Shard might look like - but Loren had been there, had assisted Doctor Bunansa during his stay, passed through the man’s quarters long enough to see sketches and studies of the Dusk Shard, now safe in an Archadian vault. This dull crystal looks very much the same, and he had heard the most recent rumors. Rebels sighted near the tomb of King Raithwall, fighting and death and perhaps, perhaps the princess had even ventured inside…

They say that Nabudis held the Midlight Shard, once. A larger city than Rabanastre, her shining sister, now nothing but a dark pit in the tainted earth, and all her people gone with her. Loren cannot look away.

“What is it that you want?”

Vossler lets out a soft, heavy sigh. For a moment, it seems he may not answer at all. He stands up, slowly, and Loren feels a jolt of panic, but all that happens is the slight tug of the rope giving way, of his hands being freed. 

“I want to put an end to this. I wish to parlay with the Lord Consul.”


End file.
